


Of Sand and Seafoam

by HisLovelyCurls



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pirates, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-25 21:56:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4978024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisLovelyCurls/pseuds/HisLovelyCurls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a vicious battle with the pirate crew aboard the baker, John and his own crew are taken captive, and he is forced to act as their doctor to keep his own men safe. But he supposes it could be worse. After all, he has the captain, Sherlock Holmes, to keep himself occupied. But darker things are afoot, when evidence of a mutiny begins to present itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick warning, I'm terrible with summaries and regular updates. Sorry about that. But I hope you all enjoy!

A seagull flew over the calm waters of the ocean, the heavy weight of exhaustion laying across its wings. For days without end it had been lost out here, the hot, yellow sun beating upon its wings and thoroughly cooking it from the inside out. At this point, it was certain: death was inevitable. It cast its eyes downwards, wondering when it would give in, and where it would fall, when it saw...no, it couldn't be...but it was! The bowsprit of a sunken ship, thrust through the smooth blue landscape like a strange tree.

Relief flooded into the tiny heart of the bird as it settled down to rest its tiny wings. It appeared there was hope yet, for where there was a sunken ship, there was sure to be an assailant. Especially with such clear weather. Whoever it was, they couldn't possibly be too far off. So, onward the gull went, the weight lighter now that there was even but a sliver of a chance that it could soon shut its eyes and sleep.

The sight of the ship on the water some hours later felt like a dream come true. Had the bird a god to which it could pray, or knees to sink down onto, it surely would've kneeled down and uttered a heartfelt prayer as it settled down onto the foremast. To its surprise upon looking down, it saw that the men of the ship were not deterred by the oppressive heat of the air. Rather, they appeared to be as alive as ever, with mixtures of blood and sweat rolling down their brows and making their skin gleam. Their shouts and jeers were loud, but muddled to the ears of the men tied to the masts, who were still dazed from their defeat earlier that afternoon. Indeed, the ship that had given the seagull above hope (who was now a source of irritation for those who had to clean the deck) had been the same ship that the captured crew had been sailing aboard just a few hours previous.

One member of this captive and utterly hopeless crew was John. John H. Watson. After sailing with his men for several years before this little...'incident,' he had long lost his fear of pirates. After all, after so long at sea, he had never gotten any real trouble from them, aside from a few scrapes every now and then. He let out a sigh. Only goes to show what happens when you let your guard down, he mused to himself as his eyes swept over the surrounding crew in a poisonous glare. He could feel the warm ooze of blood running down the side of his face, his head was pounding, and the intensity of the sun made his eyes water, but there was no way in hell he'd just look away. He wouldn't have them think he was weak, just another captive, just another man to laugh at as he begged for mercy. No, if I'm going down, I'm going down with a fight, dammit.

It seemed that a few others had the same idea as himself, leaning forward, worming about in their bindings, with spit and foul words spewing from their mouths. Admittedly, causing their captors all the trouble was about the same as the common promise to take a few men down with you, only less productive, and somehow even less assuring to the men tied to the masts. Which was just fucking wonderful. But, honestly, what else could they do? So, they snapped, and snarled (the ones who were conscious enough to, anyways), until the pirates fell silent, and the sound of boots on the wooden floor were painfully clear.

Peering through the crowd, John could see two men emerging from the captain's quarters, and he could see why their presence would make such an impact on the hostile crew. Even his own men (referring to the ones who had been putting up their fight earlier) had fallen quiet, watching anxiously.

The first man was tall, or at least quite a bit taller than his companion, with curly hair poking out from under his hat and bright eyes shining out from a surprisingly pale face, considering his 'profession'. His manner of dress was remarkably impractical, mostly the heavy black coat he had thrown over his shoulders, especially in this heat, but it did well to make him stand out as someone of importance, and highlighted the angles in his face, serving to make his gaze even more pointed and irritable than it would have been without.

This must be the captain, John thought.

The second, as before mentioned, was quite a bit shorter than the captain, and stood out for a different reason entirely. His own dress was certainly better than the ragged and torn trousers and shirts of the crew, yet was at least a tad better fit for the weather out at sea. Though this didn't mean, of course, that it was any less expensive. His black hair was slicked back, and his eyes were dark.

For some reason, the sight of the second man unsettled John. Perhaps it was how he paid no attention at all to the scene before him, or maybe it was the way he acted upon being dismissed. A smile touched his lips, but his eyes were dead.

John shook the image from his head, as there were more important matters to think of at the moment. Like the fact that the captain was approaching them, his sharp eyes roaming, seeming to size them all up like hunks of meat to be purchased for his supper. He watched, and felt a chill when those eyes met his own.

It was then that the captain stopped, and turned his attention to John, who could do little but sit in uncomfortable silence as the pirate stepped closer and crouched in front of him.

Up close, he could see the range of colours in the brunet's eyes, and the smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

"You're a doctor," Murmured a deep baritone, too low for either of the two crews to overhear.

John blinked in considerable surprise. He couldn't fathom what that had to do with anything, nor how the man in front of him could have possibly known that without asking a member of his crew. He swallowed. "..Excuse me..?"

"You are a doctor, are you not?"

John gave a reluctant nod. The captain's breath smelled like tobacco. "How, exactly, did you-"

"Nevermind that. The important thing is that you're a doctor, and surely you know how difficult it is to find a doctor-"

"Are you suggesting..? No. No, absolutely not. No." John gave a vigorous shake of his head. " _Fuck_ no. "

The captain gave a little shrug of his shoulders and stood, though not before John could see that little disgusting smile of his broaden. "Very well then," he said, raising his voice. "Do what you wish with them.So long as you clean up the mess afterwards." The few muttering voices broke into a cheer, and he could see the skin of his companions turn white in terror. They were all, of course, familiar with the things pirates did with their captors. _Bloodthirsty savages,_ John thought to himself. "Wait!"

The captain looked over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows. "Yes?"

John sucked in a breath, and let out a sigh. "I...I'll help your men. _If_ you let mine go."

There was that smile again. "What a generous offer. Very well." He looked towards a grey haired man, and tilted his head towards the bound crew. With a little nod, the pirate walked towards them, pulled a knife from his boot, and began to cut them free. The pirates let out a collective groan of disappointment, which the brunet cut short with a sharp glare. Then, he began to speak again. "However, just because you're freed, doesn't mean you're going to laze about the entire trip. In fact, I'll be making sure you'll be doing at least twice the amount of work as a regular sailor. My name is Sherlock Holmes, that over there is the quartermaster, Moriarty, and that's Lestrade. If you have anything _important_ to discuss, you'll find us. Understood? Good. You're all on half rations." Another groan, and the captain turned and strode away.

 _What the hell did I get myself into?_ John wondered as he rubbed his sore wrists.

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John does some thinking and makes at least one friend in this hell-hole of a ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy this took a lot longer than intended. Thank you to everybody who's read so far! Hopefully the next chapter won't take as long.

John Watson had never really considered himself to be a particularly patient man (which was a view shared by many, many others), so caring to a large group of squirming, complaining, swearing, equally impatient pirates proved to be rather challenging. But somehow, he managed, and by dusk he was finished and left to his own devices. He first chose to employ his time checking up on his crew to ensure none of them were actively dying, and, to his relief, they didn’t seem like it. A couple scrapes and scratches, and a few that might take a bit longer to heal, but nothing overly serious. It was a great disappointment, however, to find that their numbers were very few, and Sholto was not among them. 

He swallowed down the bitterness of his discovery, for there were far more important things to do than mourn. 

First, he plucked the healthiest young man from the sorry group, Philip Anderson, looking confused and ready to shine, as usual. John sighed, faintly annoyed by his eagerness in such a situation, but not at all surprised. “Listen, I need a minute to myself. Do everyone a favor and try to find out a bit more about our situation, will you?” Then, because Anderson was young and dumb and eager to prove himself, John grabbed his arm before he could run off. “And don’t let that big mouth of yours get you shot, understand?” 

With the briefest not, Anderson was off again and John watched him go, weaving through bodies like he’d get a disease from the slightest touch. Anderson was a good kid, even if what he was best at was getting himself into trouble. John smiled and shook his head before wandering over to the edge of the ship and staring off at the great expanse of water. 

The bottom of the sun had just touched the ocean and everything was bathed in a soft, orange glow, but as beautiful as it was, John was eager for the cool of night after the long day it had been, being so long exposed to the hot stench of blood and gunpowder and fear and death. Looking down, there were gentle waves slapping the side of the ship, a cool blue that he knew could stretch downward forever, longer than he could see. He couldn’t help but wonder how many of his friends lay down there, and who, if any, managed to survive, and how James could have met his end, if he wasn’t one of the lucky few. Squeezing his eyes shut, John strained his memory, trying to remember, desperately wanting to remember, to pull faces out of the chaos, but to no avail. But perhaps it was for the best, that his last memories wouldn’t be of their demise. Better they were gone, too. He would not wish this loneliness and uncertainty onto anyone. Still, though. They deserved better ends. 

The more John reflected on himself and his situation, the more pointless reflecting seemed to be. Nothing was being done by it, after all, and to his knowledge, nothing even  _ could  _ be done. After all, they were stranded in the middle of the bloody ocean with a bunch of bloodthirsty psychopaths. Soon enough he was only standing out there because there was nowhere else he desired to go. He couldn’t face his men yet. He couldn’t face the loss. But eventually (thankfully, even), his indecision was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. 

He was at first startled, them found himself to be pleasantly surprised to find Lestrade, the man who had cut them loose, with tobacco and alcohol. There was a gentle, almost apologetic look on his face, a faint smile at the corners of his lips. Deciding letting them go was an act that should be met with at least some gratitude (even if it was under another man’s orders), John tried to look appreciative. Whether he was successful, however, was probably debatable. Lestrade didn’t seem to mind, though. 

“Was wondering if you might need a smoke, or a drink. I mean I would, in your position.” Lestrade offered, raising the items a little higher.

John politely declined the smoke, but he did take a swig from the bottle. It wasn’t the best, but really, anything was better than nothing. He had a few more drinks while Lestrade smiled in silence before sighing and handing the bottle back. “Thanks. That was...good.”

Lestrade let out a quiet laugh. “I try to be kind when I can. Make up for all of the trouble we cause. Looks like you need it most, mate.”

John certainly felt like he did, but he couldn’t just say that, not to some strange man he hardly knew. So he shook his head. “There are others worse off than me. I’ll survive.”

“Yeah. Of course. Hey, you forgot your own found. Let me help with that.” Once Johns head wound was taken care of, they sat in relative silence, the sky going from orange to pink to purple and the breeze, coupled with the drink, helped to gradually ease Johns nerves, despite the bellowing of sea shanties behind them. But the stillness didn’t last too long, certainly not as long as he would have liked it to, ending when Lestrade gently nudged him with his elbow. 

“Listen. I know you’re probably pissed at the Captain, as anyone else would be, but it’s best you try to forgive him. What he did was done out of necessity, and you’re going to see a whole lot more of him anyways.” Lestrade explained, his tone careful. But despite the caution, and that he knew Lestrade was probably right, John was disgusted by the mere attempt to try and explain, to excuse his actions. 

“So my men, my friends, died out of  _ necessity _ ?” John growled.

“No, that’s not what-”

But John was already walking away, suddenly eager to join his surviving men below deck, only to find someone was blocking the way. A very tall, unreasonably dressed someone. He scowled when, upon looking up, he saw the cold eyes of Sherlock Holmes. Maybe that was why he always dressed so warm, because he was so cold hearted. John went to shove past him, but Holmes suddenly had a firm grip on his arm. His eyes snapped back up to the Captain’s face, glaring, waiting for him to say something. 

“I apologize.” 

It was said so quietly, and so flatly, so emotionless that John almost thought he misheard. But when the man continued to just stare, John's anger came back full force. He grabbed a fistful of the Captain’s coat. “My friends are dead.”

Suddenly, he was shoved back. “So are mine.” There was a flash of..something, in Holmes’ eye, but it was gone as soon as it arrived. For a bit longer they looked at each other, then they both went their own separate ways. 

In the darkness of John’s sleepless night, his anger ebbed away to be replaced by curiosity. Curiosity for what happened, what was happening, what would happen. With different versions of the future playing his head, each more ideal than the last, he let himself drift off.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock Holmes have a not very enlightening talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this one did take less time than the last one! Still took forever though, sorry to those who are reading. But anyways, hope you enjoy!

Over the next few days, John had the opportunity to learn a few things about the ship’s captain. Mainly that he was a prick-arse-fucking-son-of-a-bitch. The crew’s words, not his own. This was, well, a little surprising. Or maybe not. John honestly didn’t know very much at all about pirates. All he knew was that they were greedy and dangerous, and that was good enough for most everybody. Himself included. But he actually found it was rather interesting, getting a proper look at these people when they weren’t in the middle of committing some act of violence. He found that, when they weren’t actively threatening anybody, they actually seemed relatively normal. Dirty and disgusting, yes, but aside from that. They told jokes and stories (mostly about women and sex, unsurprisingly) and bellowed old sea shanties at the top of their lungs. John had even made a bit of a friend of Lestrade, who said he was only out to make the funds to propose to a girl back home. 

“I’ve got enough where we’d manage, if we tried,” Lestrade had explained, “But she deserves better than that.”

This particular day was an especially hot one, though, thankfully, without the aggression of the sun. Clouds partially obscured the sky, casting the ship and most everything in view in shadow (aside from the occasional patch of sun), but John’s shirt still clung to his back with sweat. He was sat alone, as he usually was, listening to a conversation between a couple of blokes about whiskey and prostitutes, the usually discussing between those two. A conversation he’d grown tired of, after the initial adrenaline of being stuck on a pirate ship had worn off. He still felt lonesome, it was just that he felt there were better things to do, more interesting conversations to overhear. 

John was considering getting up to look for a new couple to eavesdrop on when he realized a man was approaching him. Holmes, he was certain. Nobody else had so handsome and sharp a face, so intense a gaze, or dressed so incredibly impractically. Indeed, he could see those curls of his stuck to the side of his face. All it seemed to do was bring out his cheekbones. Lucky handsome bastard. 

Before John could ask if he was needed, there was a low “come with me” and he was being led to the captain’s quarters. Briefly he wondered if this had anything to do with their parting words of a few days ago, but it seemed fairly unlikely. 

As soon as the door was swung shut, he was hit with the smell of...bad. It was bad. Really bloody awful, actually. He couldn’t imagine  _ James _ staying in a room that smelled like this,  and he could endure most anything. But John’s thoughts on just how much the room stank (and it did stink. Like something old and dead) when something was tossed at him, which he only narrowly caught. It was a journal. Huh. He looked up to see if he was supposed to do anything with this and saw that Holmes had already shed his large impractical cloak and cap. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his dark curls were tied back in some sort of messy bun, exposing a lot more of his skin than usual. To his surprise, it was rather pace when he wasn’t so flushed from the heat, and he seemed quite a lot younger when not covered in such bulky clothing. 

Holmes turned and looked expectantly at him and John frowned. He hadn’t said anything, had he? Surely he hadn’t been staring intently enough to completely miss it if he’d said something. He looked back down at the journal, deciding it must’ve had something to do with this and opened it to a random page. It all seemed a bunch of nonsense. All sorts of symbols and long science words and markings he didn’t quite understand. John glanced up to raise an eyebrow at the captain, then back downward, flipping through it which appeared to please Holmes. 

“Well then? What do you think?” Holmes inquired, moving back to peer over John’s shoulder, which probably wasn’t particularly difficult, considering the height difference. 

“Well, uh, that sort of depends. What is it?” John asked back. 

“Oh it’s hardly anything…” He then proceeded to do a stellar job and confusing and impressing the annoyance right out of John. Well, yeah, attacking his ship was kind of terrible, but, goodness he was smart, wasn’t he? Why on earth was he a pirate? But anyways, with what education he had, he got the impression that it all had something to do with biology, which made the possibility of old dead things smelling up the place a bit more likely. 

“Well, it all sounds very smart,” John found himself saying, debating whether or not he should hold his breath the rest of the time he was there. He would if he knew how much longer he was meant to be staying. 

“Yes, clever isn’t it? I thought this would be a formidable way to spend my time now that I’ve more or less mastered the science of deduction.” Holmes was smiling to himself now. 

“Excuse me, the science of  _ deduction? _ ” 

“You’re excused. Now give me that and come here.”

Sherlock Holmes had snatched the journal away and led John to his desk where he quickly discovered the source of the terrible smell. It was just as he suspected. Several small animals were cut open for examination and lay in neat rows, presumably for some sort of experiment for the journal. It turned out John was only there to act as an extra set of hands while the caption alternated between prodding at the dead animals on the desk, jotting down quick notes to review later, and rattling on about several different subjects more to himself than anybody else. Then, as expected, when there was no more reason for him to be there, John was ushered out, feeling a touch conflicted. 

For just a moment, John considered leaving the man alone to whatever he was doing, but god was he lonely. He had to talk to  _ somebody _ , even if the actual conversation wasn’t particularly pleasant. So, without giving himself any more time to debate with himself, he rapped against the door with his knuckles. 

No response. Another knock and he could hear a grunt from the other side. Once more, and the door was yanked open and the captain’s annoyed face suddenly appeared. 

“ _ What? _ ”  He snapped, gripping the door handle tightly. 

“I feel like we should talk about the other day.” John said firmly. 

“Oh, I see. You’re  _ lonely. _ What, did I kill all of the interesting ones? My bad.”

“God, you can be annoying, can’t you? I just think I should know you if I’m going to be here.”

“Well, I don’t. Goodbye.”

“No, wait-” John groaned as the door was slammed in his face. He wasn’t very surprised by it, just irritated. So much for that. Not that he wouldn’t be trying again later, though. 

He shook his head and leaned back against the wall. He could hear Holmes muttering to himself with the occasional pause. From where he was standing, he could see a few interesting characters. There was a bloke with a twisted scar on his bicep talking with the dead eyed quartermaster, a smoking woman with dark, curly hair forcing Anderson into a conversation and another woman, this one blond, who shot a smile in his direction before returning to what she was doing. 

John realized suddenly that the captain was the only one he really wanted to have a conversation with right then, but he forced the idea away as soon as it came to him.  Surely talking with others would be just as entertaining. 

So he pushed himself off the wall and made his way over to Anderson and the woman. If he wanted to stop being so miserable, he’d have to start somewhere, after all. 


End file.
